The Silent Country (49 page)

The group ignored Topov as he fiddled with his Geiger counter.

‘These dogs are pathetic,’ said Marta as the skinny dogs hung around them.

‘They look like dingoes, don’t they?’ said Colin.

‘They’ll keep you warm at night,’ Len explained. ‘That’s why this mob keep ’em around. You’ve heard the expression, it’s a two- or maybe a four-dog night?’

Marta burst out laughing. ‘Really! I’d rather have something else keep me warm.’ And grabbing Colin’s hand she picked up her small bag and headed for their tent.

Eventually the group, without Len and Johnny, set off, wading through waist-high, brittle, sun-faded grass towards the small escarpment, led by Clive and his son George. Topov came with them carrying his Geiger counter, a stills camera and a notebook. As they neared the rocky outcrop Clive lit a small fire then smothered it with green branches and, as the smoke rose, he called out, chanting to his ancestors.

‘Maybe he’s telling them we’re here and asking permission so we can go to the caves, that sort of thing,’ suggested Colin.

The group stood quietly, while Topov signalled to Drago to use the Bolex to film the ceremony. Clive then set off again but, at the base of the rise, everyone looked up wondering how they were going to reach the craggy overhangs. Topov paused to wave the tube of the Geiger counter over a pile of rocks.

It was a tricky climb, very steep, but there were obvious footholds that helped them reach the first level. They crouched in the first overhang where smoke from
centuries of fires stained the shelter. There were paintings of animals, large kangaroos, emus, birds and lizards as well as hunting implements which retold the tale of successful hunts. Several white handprints walked over the roof. But the main painting, winding across the shelter, was of a massive crocodile.

Drago was glad the shelter was so open as it allowed in plenty of light and, with Clive’s nod of agreement, he filmed the paintings and the view from the shelter across the landscape to the river in the distance. Down below, Len and Johnny were just specks in their little campsite.

But when Clive indicated that they had to squeeze through a crevice and climb further up, it became more difficult. Clive led the way, his semi-naked body scrambling with sure-footed ease, while George helped the rest of them by placing their feet onto tiny footholds that they couldn’t see in the dark. When they reached a slightly more level, if narrow, ledge they edged along it following Clive until he ducked under a low overhang and wiggled out of sight.

‘Where’s he gone? This is scary,’ said Marta, holding onto Colin.

Colin went through first and soon there was a muffled call. ‘It’s not too bad, you can stand up.’

One by one they inched through the narrow labyrinth of passageways until they found themselves standing in an extraordinary domed gallery lit by a narrow funnel that let in light from the sky above. It acted as a foyer to a series of cleft shelters going back into the rockface. On one side was an opening that had a view of the landscape, unseen by those below.

Once they’d all squeezed through, even a surprisingly agile Topov, they stood in silence and looked in awe about them. High above, narrow slits were decorated with stylised symbols and strange stick-like figures. They were
so high that it was hard to imagine how the artists had reached up to paint them. The impact on the party of the hidden gallery was as powerful as though they had entered a temple or a cathedral. Each one felt that they were in a sacred space, with a feeling of aloneness, of privilege, with the innate knowledge that they were seeing something unique that was the embodiment of a spiritual and living culture. It was not a museum, this was a space that had been lived in, with discarded shells, bones and blackened fire rings showing that here was a seasonal place for feasting, celebration, mourning and artistic endeavour to ensure future good seasons.

Clive, familiar with possibly every inch of this internal landscape, was nonchalant. ‘Up there, that old one paintings. See old boat, come here, ’fore whitefellas.’

‘It looks like a canoe with a sail, or a kind of raft,’ said Peter. ‘They must have come from Asia. I know my Dutch people explored this part of the world. Arnhem Land is named after a part of the Netherlands,’ he added.

‘I’m going to sit near the opening,’ said Helen. ‘I feel I’m being smothered in here.’

‘Drago, take shots of Marta and Clive with paintings,’ ordered Topov. ‘I look outside, at view. Maybe I see good place to find minerals.’

They spread out through the monastery-like complex while Drago had Marta and Clive stand in the best available light. Marta gazed up at the dramatic figures etched in white ochre.

‘They’re strangely flat. And these look like they’re fresh, newer,’ she said to Clive.

‘We touch ’im up. Paint over for ceremony.’

‘So you said,’ exclaimed Marta. ‘But some of them look very, very old.’

Clive nodded in agreement. ‘White school fella say mebbe forty thousand.’

‘Years?’ Peter looked amazed as he wandered over.

‘Look at the ones back here, they’re a deep colour, like old wax,’ said Colin, joining them. ‘The patina has almost become like the rock surface.’

‘It’s incredible,’ agreed Drago. ‘I hope Topov appreciates this footage.’

‘He’s so preoccupied with the minerals and that infernal machine,’ said Helen, reappearing.

‘If I’d known about Topov’s obsession with geology I might have thought twice about this trip,’ said Peter.

‘We’ll talk about that later. Let’s look around a bit more,’ said Marta. ‘There’s so much here.’ She glanced at George, who must have been eighteen years old. ‘You come here very often with your father?’

He shook his head. ‘Not much.’

‘So this is a secret place?’ Colin asked Clive.

Clive nodded. ‘Some of our people forget ’bout here. They forget ceremony, painting up, look after old people. They no hunt, they want whiteman tucker. You take good picture dis place. So we can keep ’im, eh?’

‘This be big scene in movie,’ agreed Topov enthusiastically.

Drago checked the film in the Bolex. ‘Yes, we’ll take good pictures. Then when you’re an old man and can’t climb up here, you can look at them,’ he smiled.

Clive gave a huge smile. ‘Ah, my bones come back here. Sleep long time. George den do painting, eh.’

George nodded, looking down at his feet, but somehow the group of visitors were not convinced. They saw a future in which young people would not be carrying on the traditions in the same way.

The climb down didn’t seem as precarious as they chattered about the amazing art gallery in the escarpment. They walked back through the long grass to the camp and Clive took them on a detour past a crystal, glittering
lagoon where Mary and Violet, with the baby in a sling on Violet’s back, were wading amongst the waterlilies pulling up tubers and putting them in pretty woven dilly bags.

After dark they all crammed into the Land Rover and Len’s truck and drove down to the river where Len had set up the boats. Topov, who’d spent the rest of the afternoon fossicking, nervously accompanied them although he complained his eyesight at night wasn’t very good.

‘I be director on the shore,’ he decided.

‘It’s too dark and we’re going down river,’ said Drago.

‘I wouldn’t be standing on any river bank in the dark with crocs around, mate,’ said Len.

‘You can watch from the back of the truck with me,’ said Helen. ‘I know I can help out in some way, but there’s not much room in the boats.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll put you to work one way or another when we have to skin ’em,’ said Len cheerfully.

‘You can have my place in the boat. I’ll join Helen,’ joked Johnny to Topov.

Topov squared his shoulders. ‘Topov go in boat.’

‘Fine by me. I’ll call the fire brigade if something goes wrong,’ said Johnny.

Len wasn’t happy with Topov’s decision but he settled the director next to him in the stern while he held the tiller of the small wooden dinghy. Clive, holding a roughly made metal harpoon on a rope, squatted in the bow. Marta, pale and quiet, sat in the middle.

‘We’ll motor quietly up to where I’m pretty sure the old bloke hangs out. We might row a bit too, so as not to disturb him. If there’s an unusual noise like the motor or if the spotlight upsets him he can sink and keep out of sight. They’re cunning buggers.’

Drago, Colin and Peter were in the slightly bigger runabout. Drago sat in the bow with the camera, Peter
steered the boat, which also had an outboard motor and he handed Colin the spotlight as he sat in the middle.

Len gave them all a quick briefing on running the boats and suggested the best angle for filming. ‘Wait till I give the signal before turning the light on,’ he said to Colin.

‘You show us big crocodile, for Drago,’ said Topov. ‘Drago, get close-up pictures.’

Drago didn’t answer.

‘Have you ever hunted in the daytime?’ Marta asked Len, thinking that it would all feel less threatening if the sun were shining.

‘Yeah. Some nights if I haven’t been able to get a croc, I put out a marker buoy and come back in daylight and have another go. Crocs tend to sit on the bottom. If it’s clear water I might dive down and take a gander to see what he’s doing.’

The two boats set off, close together, the engines so quiet that they could still carry on a conversation.

‘You ever had a croc attack you?’ asked Peter.

‘If I had I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale,’ said Len.

Marta shuddered. ‘Imagine those jaws eating you up.’

‘Crocs don’t eat you right away,’ said Len in a chatty tone. ‘They grab whatever takes their fancy then roll and roll, the death roll it’s called, and drown their prey. Then if it’s something big like a dog, a ’roo, a big lizard, they shove it somewhere, under mangrove roots, under a submerged log, to let it rot a bit. Then they come back and eat.’

‘Ugh. That’s horrible,’ said Marta.

Clive, squatting quietly in the bow, scanned the dark water. He lifted his arm and Len cut the engine. Clive pointed up ahead, held up a light and swung it across the surface of the water.

‘Do you see anything?’ Marta whispered across to Colin.

‘No. Do they make any noise?’ Colin asked Len in a low voice.

‘They have a bark-like call I’ve heard on occasion. There, look up on the right. See the two red dots, that’s his eyes. They’re on top of his head which is why they can lie there submerged and still hunt.’

Len signalled Drago who called softly. ‘Yes, I see. Too far away to film. Clive, can you stand up?’

Topov took the light from Clive. ‘Good picture, take him,’ he told Drago who had already been filming Clive’s loose-limbed body balancing easily as he held the heavy, sharpened harpoon head while Len took an oar and paddled the boat towards the red eyes.

‘Where is monster?’ asked Topov in a loud voice, swinging the light across the water.

‘Quiet, Topov, don’t alert him,’ hissed Peter who’d seen the red glow of the crocodile’s eyes.

Len chuckled. ‘He’s right. This is a monster . . . You can tell by how far apart his eyes are.’

The dark surface of the water was crumpled over the spiny back of the floating crocodile. Len rowed slowly forward. Clive lifted his arm and hurled the harpoon. Drago swung the camera onto the thrashing croc, which disappeared from sight as the rope spun out of the boat. Suddenly the rope went taut and the dinghy was towed roughly through the water by the fast-swimming crocodile. Marta screamed and clutched one side of the boat.

Topov leapt to his feet shouting.

‘Sit down, Topov,’ shouted Drago. ‘I can’t see what’s happening.’

‘Keep up,’ called Peter.

Clive began hauling the rope, inching hand over hand, his face creased with effort.

‘It’s too bloody big, mate,’ cried Len.

‘Be careful,’ screamed Marta. ‘It’ll pull you in!’

There was a moment of tension when everything seemed to stop. Clive stood motionless, not relaxing his hold on the rope. The crocodile had stopped swimming. A second or two later and seemingly out of nowhere, the croc spun forward, charging the boat and leaping out of the water in front of Clive.

Marta screamed. Clive fell backward into the boat as Len scrambled between Marta and Topov with his rifle. Topov grabbed the oar that Len had dropped and stood up, poking at the thrashing crocodile as it twisted, rocking the boat alarmingly and preventing him from taking aim. There was a crunching sound and the croc dropped back into the water.

‘You all right, mate?’ Len asked Clive as he got back to his feet. ‘Bring the light here.’

He grabbed the light and they saw that the wood had splintered and that part of the bow was now crushed. Len checked the damage and turned around and gave Marta a tooth. ‘He left some teeth behind. Have to dig the rest of them out with a knife.’

‘Where is it? Will it come back?’ asked Marta fearfully.

‘He got ’em harpoon, boss,’ said Clive ruefully.

‘That’s going to slow him down a bit,’ said Len. ‘Where do you reckon he is?’

Clive inclined his head and Len shone the light across the water.